


violent delights

by rosegardeninwinter



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22746430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegardeninwinter/pseuds/rosegardeninwinter
Summary: “Your company has been the one agreeable aspect of my evening thus far,” she confesses.“How depressing,” he says wryly. He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority a vampire is rumored to be among our number tonight. Does that not intrigue you?”a 1700s vampire AU, written for the Tumblr prompt: Everlark attend a masquerade ball
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 123





	violent delights

**Author's Note:**

> okay so, many many moons later, and one day late for Valentine’s, I present you with this self-indulgent fiddle-faddle; also it probably has 700 typos; also also I was this close to calling it “let’s get gothic” and I’m not entirely sure I shouldn’t’ve - enjoy! 

The rumor starts at the edge of the crowd, somewhere over by the punch bowl, where ladies in lace are sipping on cups of red. It spreads toward the epicenter of the party like a disease to the heart, traveling along the bloodstream of snapping fans and rustling skirts, of a mouth lifted to an ear. It is met with giggles and titters, women’s pearls clutched and men’s chests puffed out in mock shows of terror and bravado.

The girl standing with her back to the large, ornate mirror in a secluded corner of the ballroom takes a shaky breath. Her gown is the color of a fresh water lily, cut to the fashion of the time, neck on display above long sleeves and satin skirts. Dark hair is swept into a soft updo of curls, crowned with a fairy circle of pins. Mercurial eyes flash behind a paper mask. She feels at once elegant and innocent, and completely out of place. Men and women dance in a haze of anonymity and abandonment before her. She can almost hear the tempo of their heartbeats.

They are not frightened. To them, the word traded between lips is all part of the masquerade, the fun of murmuring mystery, an enchantment that will melt away at the end of the night. To them, a vampire is nothing but an ever more passé legend of peasants long ago. She knows the truth. She flattens her palm against the cold glass of the mirror to steady herself as the memory slithers up her spine.

_Her legs have given out under her. Her clothes hang from her bony frame. The burlier of the two men hauls her up over his shoulder, where she lolls, dripping blood onto the cobblestones, limp and dizzy._

_She doesn’t even try to squirm away. The fight has gone out of her. Her vocal cords are shredded from crying for help that never came. Who would come to the aid of a street urchin anyway?_

_“What do you think?” her captor says. “She’s not plump enough for me.”_

_“No,” says his companion, not as big as his brother (they have to be brothers), but with a crueler face. He swipes blood from the corners of his mouth. “Tastes good, but not worth much more than a snack.”_

_Her captor snorts. “Here’s an idea,” he says, “Recall how dear mother is always on us about looking in on our baby brother?”_

_“‘Won’t you make sure he’s eating, boys?’ ‘You know he’s too soft for his own good!’” The mimicry is high pitched and sour._

_“One can’t imagine a diet of hardened criminals is particularly appetizing. Say we pay him a visit? Shut mother up for the next few decades, and give the boy something juicier for supper?”_

_Panic sends new resolve flooding through her like strong drink and somehow, miraculously, she finds the scrap of breath she needs for one last, desperate scream._

“Are you quite alright, Miss?” A hand at her elbow steadies her. The young man at her side wears a mask that barely covers his brows, which crease in concern as he studies her. “Only you looked as if you would faint.”

“I’m fine,” she replies politely. The sick feeling in her stomach is abating with her return to reality.

“Let me find you a seat,” he says, holding out his arm. “You ought not have to stand.”

She accepts his help gratefully, lets him escort her through the throng. The air is heavy with the scent of stale breath and sweat and perfume. She wishes she had a fan to banish the must away. Her throat is starting to feel tight.

“Would you mind very much if we went out to the garden?” she implores. “I’m afraid it’s rather hard to breathe in here.”

“Not at all, Miss,” he obliges.

He leads them by a cluster of women gathered in a gossiping gaggle by the fire, their haughty glances flitting this way and that. Past a soldier and his laughing partner who whisk by them, sloshing punch, and prompting a noise of alarm and disdain from an old curmudgeon with gray whiskers. Past a girl crying into a handkerchief, past a man bloviating on some dusty moral matter to a bored audience, and - at last! To the relief of the veranda, for the moment, devoid of people.

“Here,” says her companion, guiding her to sit on the marble steps that traipse into their host’s sprawling grounds, the rose bushes and high, manicured hedges washed purple in the gathering evening, the large fountain plashing quietly. It’s an expansive garden, with something of the Italian style to it. “May I get you anything else, Miss? Perhaps some water?”

“If it isn’t any trouble.”

“None at all,” he says and bounds up the steps and into the mansion again. She casts a look one way and then another. Seeing no one, she lets herself slump on the steps, reclining on her arms and admiring the stars that are beginning to peer out overhead. There’s a mild, pleasant breeze, wafting the aroma of summer flowers towards her, washing away the odors of the party. She’s never liked parties. She’s never liked people. Not since father and Primrose —

Well, no one so much as chucked a coin at her when she was a starving girl, huddled by waste heaps in the meager shelter of alleyways. She isn’t that girl anymore, but that’s no thanks to any of them, that hoity-toity lot inside. She doesn’t owe them anything, least of all her propriety. She scoots into an even more ungainly position on the steps, not caring who notices this time. She doesn’t adjust herself when she hears the footsteps that announce her companion's return.

“Water, for the lady,” he says, handing her the cut crystal, filled to the brim, as he sits next to her. To his credit, he doesn’t comment on her slouch. He holds his own drink aloft for a toast. She accepts, clinking their glasses, then gulping hers down in a distinctly unladylike manner. She gives a loud, contented sigh when she’s finished, puffing out her cheeks. He grins, showing bright teeth.

“I take it you’re not exactly enjoying yourself, Miss,” he remarks. His eyes behind his own mask, a much paler shade of blue than his coat, are amused.

“Your company has been the one agreeable aspect of my evening thus far,” she confesses.

“How depressing,” he says wryly. He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority a vampire is rumored to be among our number tonight. Does that not intrigue you?”

Shudders run up her like spiders, tickling legs creeping up towards her hair.

“If your good authority is Madam Trinket,” she replies, and the heat in her voice makes the spiders retreat, “I could not possibly find any topic less intriguing.”

Her companion grins. “Well said!” he chuckles, then adds, "At the risk of being counterproductive to the purpose of a masquerade ball … may I ask your name, bold young Miss?”

She finds her lips quirking. “Katniss.”

“Katniss.” It sounds at home on his tongue. “It’s beautiful. Much like the girl it belongs to.”

“How forward,” she teases. “Particularly since I haven’t made the pleasure of your acquaintance yet.”

His grin grows wider. “Perhaps I may make a bargain,” he says, setting down his glass and getting to his feet. “A dance for a name.”

She frowns. “I’d rather not go back inside.”

“No need,” he says. “We can hear the violins from here. May I have the honor, Miss Katniss?” He flops into a dramatically decorous bow and she laughs.

“I suppose you may,” she says, in her snootiest tone and hops the last few steps to join him on the green lawn. The musicians are playing a reel inside, but her companion doesn’t take the cue. Instead, he pulls her into a slow, gliding waltz.

“I find it easier to talk this way,” he says, for explanation. “Tell me something about yourself, Miss Katniss.”

“Your name, first,” she says, as he twirls her, making her gown furl out in a snowy blossom of fabric.

“It’s Peeta,” he says, as she spins into his arms again. “Peeta Mellark.”

“Dutch?” she guesses.

“Old,” he clarifies with a smirk.

“Sounds it.”

“And what about Katniss?”

“My mother loved flowers.”

“And you?”

“Daisies,” she says. “Violets. Bluebells.”

“You like wildflowers.”

“My father did always call me his wild girl.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Hmm.” She steeples herself on tiptoes, bringing herself nose to nose with him. She hears him swallow, and pulls away, smirking. He doesn’t go red, but she can see that he’s flustered. She likes that, likes that she did that to him, but decides to spare him. “Walk with me?” she says. “I’d like to tour the gardens.”

“As my lady likes.”

It’s a holdover from the Middle Ages, that politeness, and she tells him so. "Are you to be my chivalric knight, good sir?”

He hums in faux sagacity. “I’m afraid I’m no use with a sword. Never was.”

She heaves a forlorn sigh. “But I did so want a knight with flashing steel.” She settles herself more comfortably on his arm, leaning into him slightly.

They stroll leisurely out of view of the party. Into the quiet under a secluded trellised pathway, a canopy of pink and white roses arching overhead and tumbling to the cobblestones. They come to rest on a marble bench perfectly fit for two. Peeta reaches up to pluck a rose from the climbing tangle behind them.

“I would say some nonsense like ‘a rose for a rose’ but I get the impression you wouldn’t care for that, Miss Katniss,” he says slyly, as he presents it to her.

“Not in the least,” she says, but she takes the rose and admires its satin blooms. She meets his eyes over the plush burst of petals. “This is lovely,” she murmurs, genuinely. “Thank you.” 

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Katniss,” he says. “I wish I had wildflowers for you, wild girl.”

“I don’t need them,” she demurs. “I’m not such a wild thing.”

“Good,” he says, lips a breath from hers. “I’d never be able to catch you otherwise.”

“Haven’t you already?” she says, and she’s the one who seals the kiss. It’s gentle, hesitant, as a first kiss should be. She draws back, blushing. 

“How improper of us,” he whispers.

“Very,” she says, and accepts his mouth again. The kiss is hungrier this time, driven by a kind of heated curiosity, eager to be sated. Her fingers flutter around his curls (an unusual look: short, and neat, forgoing the popular ribboned ponytail of the day, but she likes it), before delving into them, carding greedily. He makes a low, needy noise in his throat and bites at her lip with his teeth.

“Oh!” She pulls away sharply, bringing a hand to the wound. “That hurt.”

She scowls at him, fully expecting him to fall over himself apologizing, and fully ready to accept his apology with more kissing. Only he isn’t apologizing. He stares at her, motionless, speechless. Her heart lurches against her ribcage with such force that she’s rendered momentarily immobile, as his tongue darts out to lick a splotch of her blood away from his lip. He hums appreciatively, as though he's tasting a fine wine or a rich raspberry jam. 

“I apologize, Miss Katniss.” His voice is half a growl, nothing like it was a brief moment ago, except that his words are unerringly polite. “You see, I haven’t eaten in days.” He takes a deep inhale that seems to wrack his entire body. She’d mistake it for a spasm of pleasure if she wasn’t wiser. And it is, in a way. Bloodlust. “If we’re being improper already, I might as well tell you ... you smell absolutely delicious.”

She’s too winded to call out. She only has enough wherewithal to leap to her feet, tripping over her buckled shoes, and run, hiking her heavy skirts up to her knees, heedless of any direction save for one.

_Away._

A gazebo with a glass roof, Grecian columns rung around with ivy, appears in front of her, and she stumbles into it, shaking. Moonlight makes her skirts glow ghostly white and she has a mad notion to brush the light off, like she’d brush away dust. For a split second everything is completely still.

Then he’s on her, a strong arm imprisoning her waist, one large palm splayed over her neck. “Quiet now. Don’t make a sound.” She whimpers, but obeys. “I don’t mind,” he croons, “If you run, I mean.” His lips feather over her collarbone, find her pulse beating frantically under her skin. “Makes your blood race so prettily.”

Something drops to the ground in front of her with a plink. Her diamond pins. He’s picking them out one by one, with sure, quick plucks, tossing them aside. Her hair comes cascading around her. Peeta groans and nuzzles the unbound locks, rubbing his nose against the base of her skull. She squirms, thighs clamping together.

“Lilac,” he notes. “Or is it jasmine? My favorites. How did you know?”

She stifles a moan and he hushes her with a squeeze of her throat. “But,” he tuts pensively, “you can’t possibly be expected to get very far in this.”

His mouth burns a seal, a possessive signature mark, at the top of her spine. He jerks at the pins of her silk pinafore, popping it loose from the embroidered stomacher and stays. It falls unceremoniously to her feet, and is quickly joined by its petticoat. He’s unthreading the laces of her stays now, or trying to, at least. He hisses as he hits a snag and pulls hard on the ties, only succeeding in drawing them tighter.

“Damn thing,” he mutters darkly. “How do you — ?”

“It isn’t that diff — ” she starts, but he growls in frustration and what she was going to say is lost in a squeak as he rips the stays apart with violent force. He divests her of the rest of her garments and her shoes, leaving her in her thin white shift and her stockings, gartered high up on her knee. He spins her around to drink her in, clad in nothing but what she’d wear to bed, the fabric clinging loosely to her curves.

“And we’ll have none of this,” he says softly, removing her mask. “I want to see you.” He cups her face, thumb grazing the apple of her cheek. The gesture is soothing, almost sweet ...

She comes back to herself before he does and she takes the opportunity to whip her head to the side and sink her teeth into his wrist. He releases her with a yelp and she races down the steps of the gazebo.

He was right about getting nowhere in her pounds of petticoats. In her shift, she feels lighter than air. She flies over the manicured lawns like a fae girl, dizzy and nearly delirious. She is drunk on the black excitement of the night, on the sensation of the breeze on the sweaty skin beneath her shift. The house is long left behind. She’s skittering into the copse of trees on the far side of her host’s property. It’s probably made use of in the hunting season, in the autumn, when men take the dogs out to bay after rabbits and deer. She feels an affinity with those prey creatures in this moment. Her limbs are like jelly and her lungs are bursting. She’s in sight of a tiny pond, where the moon reflects like a cat’s claw, when she collapses into the dewy grass. The trees sway above her in the wind. She takes one heaving gasp. Two, five, ten.

By the twelfth gasp, he’s pinned her beneath him. His coat and mask have been lost somewhere. He’s as disheveled as she is, and he flashes sharp fangs triumphantly down at her. 

“Oh, Katniss,” he sighs. He doesn’t sound out of breath in the least. “Almost, almost.”

She can’t speak for being short of breath. Not as her shift is torn open easy as wet paper. Not as his mouth descends on her throat, licking and nipping. Not when his hand sweeps up and down her stockinged leg and his hips rock into the cradle of her pelvis. Her head falls back and a desperate keen escapes her. “Please. Please.”

She hears herself break. Her plea sounded too real, too eager. Not enough like the ingénue damsel seduced by a creature of the dark. But Peeta’s entire body goes rigid against hers. 

He pulls away from her, instantly dropping out of character. His eyes are wide with sudden alarm. “No,” he says, serious and pained, “No, don’t say that, Katniss.” He frames her cheek in that tender gesture from the gazebo, and this time, she doesn’t hesitate to sink into it.

“What?” she immediately frets, turning her head to kiss the spot on his wrist where her teeth caught him, already paying her penance for that bit of theatricality. “What is it, love?”

“Don’t — when you say “please” like that — I can only think — ”

“No,” she shushes him. “No. Peeta this is nothing like that. Nothing. You saved me.”

_“Little brother! Little brother!”_

_“Got a present for you!”_

_Firelight flaring in her vision. A man, leaping up from a writing desk as she is thrown onto the carpet in a heap._

_“What in the name of God, Brann? Bannock, what is this?”_

_“Obviously, Peeta, it’s a girl,” comes the snide drawl._

_“What — ?”_

_The unfamiliar figure stands over her. She can barely make out his features for disorientation and agony, but she can tell from his pale skin that this must be the third brother. The one meant to make her his meal. She curls her body tighter into the fetal position._

_“What have you done to her?”_

_“She’s a fighter,” replies his brother. “Had to get control of her.”_

_“Get control of her? She’s tiny!” The third brother’s tone is livid. “What harm could she have caused you? You half bled her out. Broke her ribs by the look of it!”_

_“She wouldn’t stop screaming.”_

_A boot nudges her in the stomach and she sobs. “Please ... please whatever you’re going to do to me ... please just get it over with.”_

_“Get out.” The third brother’s voice is deadly calm. “Get out of my house, both of you.”_

_“Oh, don’t play Saint Peeta. She’s on death’s door already. Do her a mercy.”_

_“Don’t talk to me about mercy.”_

_“You’re too soft, Peet. Mother — ”_

_“And don’t talk to me about Mother, Brann. I don’t want anything to do with her. I don’t want anything to do with you. I want you to get out of my house.”_

_“Write to her, Peeta. One letter. It’ll shut her up for half a century.”_

_“Alright, perhaps I will write to her. Tell her about that incident of yours at Norwich.”_

_A tense pause. Then,_

_“Peet, you can’t — ”_

_“What’s stopping me? Certainly not you. In fact, it’ll be written and posted at dawn if you don’t leave me be.”_

_“Why you son of a — !”_

_“Brann, enough. Have it your way, Peeta. We’re going.”_

_“What’s he going to do?” the one named Brann sneers as a parting shot. “Keep her as a pet? Pretty kitty-kitty?” His laughter is cut short by the loud thud of the door._

_The third brother kneels beside her. “You poor thing,” he whispers sadly. “You poor girl. What did those bastards do to you?”_

_She chokes feebly on another sob. “Are you ... are you going to kill me?”_

_“No.” His voice is stricken. “No, no.” He brushes his hand through her hair. “Can you tell me your name?”_

_“Katniss.”_

_“Katniss,” he repeats. His hand lingers at her cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you. You hear me?”_

_She nods._

_“I’ll — uh — I’ll call for the doctor,” he fusses aloud. “I’ll draw you a nice hot bath. How does that sound? A nice hot bath and some food too, I think. Some bread and soup? You’re all skin and bones.”_

_“I — I — ” Overwhelmed by his kindness, she doesn’t even think to be suspicious. Tears well up and spill over. “Thank you.”_

_“It’s nothing,” he says. “Here.” She winces at the jostling of her ribs as he scoops her up, not at all like his brother’s rough handling, but like someone would carry their bride, an arm supporting her head and her knees. “I know, I know. I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’re safe now. You’re safe. I’m going to take care of you. I promise.”_

“It’s a lucky thing I don’t know where they are,” Peeta mutters bitterly. "I could kill them for what they did to you.”

Katniss scowls up at him. In a flash, she’s flipped the script so that she’s straddling his waist, pinning him down. Her torn shift falls about her like sheer, cotton wings as she tells him sternly, “Don’t think about them. You’re nothing like your brothers. You hear me?”

He nods. “I hear you.”

“Say it.”

“I’m nothing like my brothers.” 

“Nothing.” She drapes her body over his, resting her head against his chest, where she has every night for five years. “You saved my life, my heart.” 

He caresses the line of her spine. “And you saved mine.”

They lie there for a moment. The adrenaline of the situation fades out and the sounds of a country night fade in. The hoot of an owl, the splash of a fish in the pond, the rustle of leaves, and far off, almost too faint to hear, the party, carrying on obliviously. Katniss gives a bark of laughter.

“You’re a regular dramatist, you know. Spreading rumors of a vampire in our midst?”

“Was I lying? And anyway it’s not my fault Effie’s parties are downright unbearable if you’re possessed of any halfway decent sensibilities. Can you blame me for wanting to make some sport of it?”

“No, I suppose not,” she hums, somewhat sleepily. Then, after a beat, “Can we go back to being our usual selves?”

He leans up to kiss her. “I’d love that.” They’re still kissing as he rolls her onto her back again and maps her with his lips, savoring each beloved feature: forehead and nose, throat and breasts. The moon makes his blond hair look white gold, but his eyes are unchanged. No amount of light could ever make those gentle blues appear icy. They watch her fall apart once, then twice, to a languid, easy rhythm. She wraps her legs around his middle and repays him in her turn with soft shudders and coos that are his undoing. 

She’s glad their masquerade is over. _This_ is what she wants, what she craves. One day, she knows (and he knows too, though he always dodges the subject) this won’t be enough, but they don’t need to think about that now. She’s certain how it will end anyway. He’s as hopeless when it comes to her as she is when it comes to him. She has an eternity of love to look forward to. 

Though after, as he buttons her up in his shirt, she does find one thing to complain about: “Peeta,” she tells him, “I love you, more than anything in the world, but if you ever ruin my nice gown again, I’m going to wear silver jewelry for a month and make you go hungry.” 


End file.
